Letters from the Depths of Solitude. 139. On Immortality
If I believed in immortality and salvation of the individual soul, would I claim that all memories and little funny quirks, idiosyncrasies, and peculiarities, will also find their place in eternity? This is an inquiry which evokes the question of the opposing nature: In the paradise, where there is no becoming, since there is no time, would it be possible to forget anything?
Let us allow that the paradisaical bliss is achieved not through omitting remembering, but through overwhelming forgiving. In this case, would paradise mean the individual soul retains all her grimaces and weird gestures?
But no, of course, even if the individual soul is immortal (to which idea there is absolutely no supporting evidence, nor there could ever be), in this case, not the entirety of the soul is immortal. For the mutable person, there is a whole cluster of individuality which is perfectly shed-able. Yet even the lest significant and most hurtful events which had ever happened to me–I don’t know, I want to keep them all. I would not be I, if I did not live through them. Why are little events any any less important than the great events, ecstatic triumphs, and impressive traumas?
I want to know–and remember–everything. Everything should find its place in a mosaic of my warped personality. And why would I shed anything at all, which defines myself as me, that is to say, why would I want to abandon a part of my memory? I want to keep every curled leaf I saw before it soaked into the soil as a pale shadow of itself. I cherish every spot of dirt on my shining white sleeve. And I would never want to forget any of the cutting words which made me into my current crisp form.
When I think about the form that your acquired, it seems to me laconic, elegant, simple. The un-existing God no doubt sees human beings for what they are–that is to say, in a kind of ideal, almost geometrical form that I see you. This is what is meant when it is stated that love is divine.
If God had not been devised, as an ideal thought, a perfect theological exercise, it should have been invented. And one day it will come into existence. In one point in time the almighty machines would simulate God. They would calculate him just how he is, to make him believe into his own existence. The emergence of God will produce remarkably little effect. There will not even be a need to rewrite sacred books, for they are so singularly obscure, they would accept every new event as but another argument supporting their utter uselessness and buttressing their cunning poetics. If there is anything one could never disprove, it is poetry. If there is anything one could never believe, it is God. If there is anythings laughable at all, in this world of self-perpetuating seriousness, it is the idea of immortal individual soul.